


Emptiness

by VitaLupum



Category: Ylvis
Genre: Blood, Depression, M/M, Self-Harm, Valle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-10
Updated: 2014-11-10
Packaged: 2018-02-24 21:37:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 652
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2597264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VitaLupum/pseuds/VitaLupum
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I'm working through some personal issues right now.</p><p>Disclaimer: Vegard Ylvisåker and Calle Hellevang-Larsen are probably not in a gay relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Emptiness

            Vegard sat down on the bed, and stared out of the window for a moment, forcing breath out through his mouth in a gasping kind of ‘whoosh’, attempting vainly to calm himself. He knew what was coming – it was what always came next. He could attempt to delay it – he’d vacuumed the apartment, scrubbed the sink, polished the table, with a fervour that could have fooled anyone into believing he was an avid germophobe. His fingers were wrinkled and rough with liquid, and he _stank_ of bleach.

            But still it persisted under his skin, like an itch that clung to his very bones that he couldn’t scrub off even if he took all of his flesh off with it – he felt like Lady Macbeth, he thought wryly as he sat there, staring outside. Except he would scrub and scrub to get out the itch. The blood, he had no problem with.

            The sun was out, but the light _felt_ wrong, thin and empty like winter night. Nobody was in the Oslo street – he exhaled shakily, and put a hand to the glass. The cold of it made him even more aware of that gnawing ache, that persistent feeling of unreality that made him feel that he’d been trapped in an ungrateful and uncaring meat suit.

            Silence reigned outside. An empty world waited for him to come back.

            There was nothing else for it. He walked into the kitchen, opening the drawer, and picked one that he hadn’t used in a while. Black handled, silver edged, a real _slicer_ – one that would not snag, or tear. Clean, he supposed, and then he went back into the bedroom, and sat on the bed, rolling up his long, grey sleeves.

            Why was he the broken one? Did Bård not feel this worn-down, hollow feeling in his chest, as if he’d been broken apart and reassembled wrong? Did Bjarte not feel this dull, aching emptiness, as if he were full of nothing but grey fluff and flies? Why, again, had he been singled out? Why was he always the different one?

            He watched in awe as the blood beaded up from where the knife had caressed him, once, twice, three times on that arm – and then once, twice, three times on the other, for balance. And then came the stinging – nothing too painful to stand, just a high, insistent note that would dull into a bass throb of pain in the next few days. It was all over so quickly, he mused as he watched the beads join together like villages extending roads to form trade links – and then his phone rang.

            “Shit,” he muttered, all too aware, suddenly, and snatched it up, wincing as his jumper sleeve rode down his arm and dipped a slightly-worn cuff, smudging the first line on his left arm. “Calle, hi…”

            “Hey.” Vegard smiled a little, his heart speeding up. “Are you okay? You seemed a little… off today.” Vegard looked out of the window, and was relieved to find the sun had gone away. The chill that he felt now matched the outside world.

            “I’m fine,” he lied, and there was a sigh. “No, really. I’m fine.”

            “You didn’t… again, did you?” came the concern, and Vegard took a deep breath.

            “No. Listen… I’ll meet you soon. Give me five minutes, okay?” A truck rattled past, a bird called, people chattered dully, and he closed his eyes, suddenly feeling nauseous to the core.

            “I love you.” He bit his lip, suddenly feeling selfish. That was supposed to make it all better, wasn’t it? To fix everything. _All you need is love._ Sometimes, he reflected, love was simply a mask people put on to hide their scars. It’s harder to see the red amongst rose petals.

            “I love you too.” As he hung up, he looked at the knife that still lay on the bed. Never again. Until next time.


End file.
